To Die, To Sleep
by powmeow
Summary: Doctor Crusher falls into a deep sleep. The secret to waking her may be hidden in the indecipherable scrawls of her personal journal. The crew hesitates to say goodbye. PC
1. The Sleeping Doctor

Old fandom, new fan. I hope there are still some readers out there. Paramount's toys, I'm just borrowing them.

* * *

"Picard to Doctor Crusher, come in."

Picard waited for a response. There was none. He stood up from his chair, tapped his communicator once more.

"Doctor Crusher?"

The captain glanced around the bridge. Both Riker and Troi were now looking at him.

"Bridge to Sickbay."

"Yes Captain?"

It was not Beverly's voice. "Lietenant Ogawa. Where is Doctor Crusher?"

"In the quarantine room, Sir. We are not permitted to enter."

"She is not responding to my summons on her communicator. I was hoping for a report from her soon." After a moment's hesitation he added, "Do you think she is alright?"

Ogawa paused for longer than Picard found comfortable.

"You had better send Commander Data. He is the only one Doctor Crusher would permit to enter while she is handling samples."

"Very well. Picard out. Commander Data, I shall accompany you to sick bay. Number One, you have the bridge."

* * *

 _Captain's Log, Stardate 418394.1:_

 _It has been three days since the Enterprise intercepted a freighter in response to a distress call. While deliveri+ng supplies to a colony in the midst of a civil dispute, the freighter's crew had contracted a rare and yet uncured infection caused by a plant species that native to the planet. The locals knew to avoid it; the crew did not. It is a neural infection that works slowly, carried in the infected blood and bodily fluids. When the first members of the crew began exhibiting symptoms, they were still unaware of what they were dealing with. The preliminary symptoms are mild and similar to that of sleep deprivation and lethargy. The crew did not sufficiently protect themselves from transmission, and all eight members were infected by the end of the week._

 _By the time the Enterprise had reached them, only one member of the crew was still conscious. The other eight had fallen into a deep coma. All were beamed directly into quarantine and put on life support. Within 36 hours of boarding the Enterprise, the last member of the freighter's crew lost consciousness. We have set course for the nearest Starbase to have them transferred to its medical facility for treatment._

 _This infection has been studied for decades. A cure is imminent. CMO Doctor Crusher is determined to put the last pieces together before we reach the Starbase. Having studied the nature of this infection in depth prior to contact, she believes that with active samples, she has the ability to develop an antidote. The disease works very slowly, leaving a victim unconscious for several months before finally taking his life. This gives Doctor Crusher ample time to work on the cure. However, I worry about her handling such samples. Even with the utmost care, the infection is too contagious to be completely avoided, and it only takes 48 hours to induce a coma._

Picard paced back and forth in front of the quarantine room, occasionally stopping to glance at the doorway. It was coated in an iridescent shimmer; the force field Doctor Crusher had activated to assure nobody could accidentally enter while she was working. It had been momentarily deactivated to allow Data to enter, and then promptly reactivated until Data or Doctor Crusher determined the room to be safe for entry. This was taking entirely too long for the captain's liking.

Finally, the force field deactivated. Hearing its hum die down, Picard positioned himself at the entrance. Data emerged moments later, his face the same as usual, giving no indication of the nature of what he was about to convey.

"Unfortunately, it is as you had feared, Captain. Doctor Crusher herself has been infected. I discovered her unconscious at her work desk. You may enter now, if you wish."

"Please, Data." There was an edge to Picard's voice that he was trying very carefully to conceal. It was a tone that Data had long become familiar with, and identified whenever any member of the crew was in serious danger. Data placed it as concern, edging on fear. Fear was something he could not understand. Concern, however, he saw as something experienced while calculating the chances of an unfavorable outcome.

Doctor Crusher lay in bed, still in uniform, her hands laid at her sides. A small chip had been placed on her head to monitor her life signs, which appeared on a screen directly behind her. The other eight patients were lined up on beds beside her, all the way to the end of the room. They were all hooked up to their respective screens, but unlike Doctor Crusher, they were encased in glass reinforced by a force field, to ensure maximum quarantine.

"She appears to be stable, Sir." Data informed Picard, who was squinting at the screen, attempting to decipher all of the blinking charts, graphs, and numbers. "I apologize for the delay; I had to seal away all samples Doctor Crusher was working with, and then sanitize the entire room, myself included, before it was safe for entry. Since the disease is not airborne, I calculated that a force field was unnecessary. Doctor Crusher appears to have been taking extra precautions. However, I would not advise you to engage in more than necessary physical contact with her."

"Thank you Data, you have been very thorough."

"Doctor Crusher kept me updated, as I am the only one who was able to assist her when necessary."

Picard sighed, pulled up a stool next to the doctor's bed. "You always have to be so stubborn."

"I do not think she can hear you, Sir."

"I know, Data."

Data busied himself at the doctor's desk while Picard sat silently on the stool, staring at Beverly's face and letting the reality of what had happened sink in. Although he had worried about it, he wasn't sure if he fully accepted the possibility that Beverly herself might get infected. Despite the high likelihood of it, Picard found himself facing a bit of a shock. Was she really going to die this time?

"Data, her notes... do they have anything we can pass on to the doctors at the Starbase? Something to bring them closer to a cure?"

"I believe they do, Captain. Last we spoke this morning, Doctor Crusher had indicated that she was close. It is a delicate formula, but I do believe she had discovered it."

"Of course she had." Picard smiled. "Bring me the Padd. I'd like to take a glance at it myself before passing it on to Lieutenant Ogawa."

"There is a slight problem with that. For her most important notes, Doctor Crusher prefers to write freehand. I saw her doing this once, and found it peculiar. She explained her fear of losing her work while we are between Starbases. She keeps a journal for extra insurance, in case something were to happen to the Enterprise's data banks. I checked all of her computer records, and no files on this infection have been updated in the last 36 hours. I hypothesize that these are the only record of her progress at this time."

Picard looked up to see Data holding a leather bound journal. His face fell. He took and flipped through the pages. It was full of illegible scrawls, unintelligible diagrams, and sketches of molecular compounds labelled with some made-up shorthand. "Can you decipher this, Data?"

"Perhaps, but it may take longer than our remaining journey to the Starbase. I have nothing to compare it to."

The sharp lurches between hope and despair were making the Captain weary. "I must consult Commander Riker and Counselor Troi before taking matters further. Let us assemble in my ready room."

Picard knew of only one person who could assist them, but he was very unsure of whether Wesley Crusher could be contacted easily. It may be days, weeks, months, years before he responded to any transmission. But regardless, Wesley needed to be here. As Data left the quarantine room ahead of him, Picard paused before getting up. He brushed some hair off of Beverly's face so that it was unobscured. Her expression was completely blank. The sight of it frightened him.

He tried to remember what it looked like during breakfast this morning. It had been a short breakfast; she was too immersed in her work to stay long. She sipped coffee and talked about her research. Her voice was fast and excited. She had looked tired. He thought it was because she was up late working, but he should have paid more attention. He had turned to start reading a report as she was leaving. He could hear the _clink_ of her cup being placed on the table. She had squeezed his shoulder and the smell of fresh linen and antiseptic drifted above him as she said "I'll see you later, Jean-Luc." But he hadn't looked up at her face before she walked out.

Picard touched her hand to make sure it was still warm, and then left her to sleep.


	2. Deanna

The tension in the room left an almost physical weight on Deanna Troi's shoulders. The captain's words barely made it through to her, they were so muddled in the panic he was suppressing from his voice. Will, whose mind was often a solace for her at times like this, was no better. As they discussed Beverly's condition, Deanna chose to focus in on Data, gulping his emptiness like fresh air after breaking the surface of murky water.

"Number one, I need a constant stream of signals going to all known locations of Wesley Crusher." Captain Picard was finishing giving orders after the debriefing.

They were cruising along at Warp 6 now, only a couple of days away from the Starbase with the best medical facilities. Data was to begin attempting to decipher the contents of Doctor Crusher's journal and familiarizing himself with all information on record about this infection. Deanna was to spend time with Beverly, assessing her emotional readings and level of consciousness.

Deanna had long desired to do this, but Beverly had been very strict about who entered the quarantine area and when. She had wanted to be working continuously, which did not give Deanna a decent window of sterilized access to the patients.

Data accompanied her to sick bay so that he could begin work immediately. There was already a stool at Beverly's bedside—no doubt placed there by the Captain. The doctor was now in a patient gown, a thin sheet pulled up to her chest and tucked around her, as though by her own hands. Deanna sat down and slowly peeled away the barriers she kept between her empathic self and the ship to keep from being intrusive.

The first thing she felt was not Beverly. It was the disconcerting feeling that had assaulted her as soon as she walked into the room. Now, as she opened her mind, they screamed inside her skull like nails on a chalkboard. She flinched and bent forward, resting her elbows on her knees and massaging her temples. The other patients were all suffocating inside their own bodies. Their minds were more alert than she had expected. She attempted to soothe them, sending waves of calm and reassurance into their thoughts. After some time, a few of them drifted into more muted states. Their readings showed their heart rates slow, as though they were sleeping.

Deanna took this time to pull the threads of Beverly's emotions out of the multicolored tapestry of feeling that veiled her mind. Their hues were familiar and she could pick them out readily. Beverly was calmer than the others, but still agitated.

"Beverly, can you hear me?" Deanna took her hand. She felt Beverly's mind shift in response-a flutter of recognition, a swell of relief, and then frustration. The patterns were far too complex and nuanced. Deanna feared that inside of her unresponsive body, Beverly was far more awake than she ought to be.

She wasn't sure whether she should report this, though. She couldn't tell for sure how much Beverly understood or processed, and she didn't want to misinform the crew at such a crucial time.

She looked across the beds at all of the sleeping faces. They were limp and peaceful. Yet Beverly may be aware, somewhere behind her gentle expression, that she was slowly approaching death. Deanna grasped her hand more tightly. "We're going to figure it out, Beverly. Don't worry."

Beverly responded with a twinge of sorrow. Not nearly as much hope as Deanna would have liked to feel.

Deanna heard the hiss of the door opening and she felt the presence of tightly muzzled anxiety. She could tell that it was the Captain without turning around. "Counselor, report."

"Well..." Deanna hesitated. As the Captain's voice drifted through the room she felt a great wave of emotion from Beverly. She had to stop and wait for it to pass. "... Well, I have confirmed that the patients have some consciousness and awareness of their surroundings. I am unclear of how much they are processing and how much of it is just their natural reactions to external stimuli."

The Captain was silent for a moment. Deanna turned around at last to see him watching Beverly, brows knitted. "Can she hear us, then?"

"I think so, Captain. The sounds, at least. I'm not sure if she understands our words, though." Deanna stood up and paced around the other patients. She could tell the Captain wanted her seat, but didn't want to ask. Sure enough while she feigned examining another patient intently, he sat down.

"I think you should talk to her. Not just you, but everyone. I feel that it would be a comfort to her. Familiar voices might give her a sort of anchor."

"Very well." The Captain said quietly. "I will inform the rest of the crew. Commander Data?"

"Sir?"

"That goes for you especially, since you will be spending the most time with these patients. Talk to them."

"Yes, Captain."

The Captain moved the stool a bit closer and took Beverly's hand. Deanna wandered towards the door, lingering there. She leaned against the far wall and watched them. Captain Picard began speaking to her in a low voice about how they were attempting to contact Wesley, and how close they were to the Starbase. He told her about the journals, and Data's work. Deanna could feel Beverly being soothed by his words, her sorrow parting to let in a rush of longing. The warmth of emotion radiating from them settled over the room like a pleasant blanket.

Deanna felt this warmth often in their presence. It was like they became their own planet. When they spoke to each other, even in a crowded room, it formed a thick atmosphere of intimacy that muffled everything beyond their own magnetic field. Deanna always found it comforting to bask in, letting her mind orbit their gravity in languid loops, while they remained oblivious to its effect on her.

Today, however, she felt intrusive. There was weight and urgency in their interaction. She could feel both of them doubt how much time they had together. Deanna also had her fears. She too wanted more time with Beverly. As much as she hated the thought, she couldn't ignore it. There were so many things she wanted to tell her.

But now was not the time. Deanna slipped through the door unnoticed. Beverly and Jean-Luc were already on their planet, and she was sworn to follow the prime directive.

Deanna talked to the medical staff about Beverly's condition, encouraging them to drop in and say a few words to her whenever the room was sanitized. She wanted to tell Will, also. He was likely on the bridge, monitoring communications and ensuring that they were on a steady course. She had no idea when the Captain would be ready to leave Beverly's side, and she thought Will deserved to be in the loop. She stepped into the turbolift and leaned wearily against the wall. More than any of that, she needed to offload some of the emotional strain onto someone calm and open.

"Bridge."

The lift lurched into motion and she let her eyes close. At that moment she felt something disturbing her solitary space. A little flash of concern appeared and then disappeared in a moment. Then bits of fear, glitching in and out. Deanna opened her eyes.

Two figures flickered in the turbolift with her. One was unreadable, but the other was definitely human. Wesley Crusher materialized before her eyes—taller, sturdier—but definitely Jack's stubborn jaw and Beverly's inquisitive eyes.

The Traveler was the second figure. "We received your transmissions," he said in his flat voice.

"Is she okay?" Wesley asked immediately.

Deanna stuttered but couldn't manage to get out any real words, half out of shock and half because his question didn't have a simple answer.

The Traveler placed a hand on Wesley's shoulder. "I am not needed here. I will return for you when the time comes."

They looked at each other for a brief moment, before the pale figure disappeared once more.

The doors to the turbolift opened into the bridge. Deanna looked up to meet Will's eyes. His gaze flickered to Wesley's back, and then again to Deanna. He stood up.


	3. Wesley

Wesley Crusher felt like he was sixteen again, peering out into the bridge of the Enterprise from the turbolift. Riker had practically leapt to his feet at the sight of him. His beard had grown again.

"Commander."

"Wesley. Good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances." Riker approached Wesley, who hesitated a moment before stepping off the turbolift. He felt Counselor Troi follow close behind him. The lift closed. Wesley didn't need to ask how his mother was; the question burned through his eyes.

"She's stable." Riker squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, let's talk in the Captain's ready room. Worf, you have the bridge."

"Stable" wasn't quite the word Wesley was looking for. Neither Data nor Captain Picard could be seen on the bridge, and Riker's grip on his shoulder was a little too firm. The Counselor was already seated, chewing her lip and gazing out into the stars in a way that was really unsettling. All of these things were coming together in a chorus of alarm bells in Wesley's mind.

"Have a seat, Wesley." Riker motioned to the couch and Wesley's heart began beating a bit faster. He sat down reluctantly.

"Can I offer you something? You're old enough to have a drink, right?" Riker headed towards the replicator.

"I'm okay. Just tell me what's going on."

Riker sighed and stopped, staring at the replicator from a distance. "I wish I weren't on duty, I could use a drink myself." He doubled back and sat down on the couch next to Wesley. "Your mother is very dedicated. Too dedicated, at times."

"I know."

Riker explained as best as he could, and Wesley clenched his hands between his knees, staring at the fissures between his fingers until the shapes began to look unfamiliar.

"Mom's journal." He laughed in spite of himself. "I always saw her scribbling away in there. I tried reading over her shoulder a couple of times but it really is a complete scrawl." He shook his head. "I was only ever able to make out two words."

Riker turned away from Wesley and ran his hand absentmindedly over his beard. "Then I suppose you can't help Data with his translation then."

"Well... maybe. I haven't really had a chance to see it beyond a few glances before I was shooed away." Wesley smiled, relaxed his tight grip. "But... when I was young, Mom used to feel really bad about not being able to cook the old fashioned way. She didn't really have time, you know? But she really thought it was something parents should do for their kids sometimes. So every morning when she sent me to school with replicated food, she would write me these notes. They were little folded up pieces of paper that said something different every day. Sometimes it was a funny story or a joke, something that happened at work, or in her childhood, or a story about Dad... I got used to reading them. Nobody else could ever tell what they read; it was like our secret." His smile faded a bit. "When I got a little older the other kids started making fun of me, calling me a momma's boy. So I told her I didn't have time to read any of her stupid notes and she should just stop writing them."

Riker chuckled a little. "That's very like her. Maybe you can learn a few secrets out of her journal now. And Data will help."

"Yeah, I'll need his help for sure. I don't even know where to start with all her weird scientific short hand. One time I asked her for her old Organic Chemistry notes for an exam—couldn't read them _at all_. In the end I did pretty well anyway, and then pretended her notes got me through the test when I talked to her later. She just looked so happy when I asked her for help I couldn't tell her."

"I know, she told everyone about it."

The two of them shared a quiet laugh before Wesley's face became grave. "This is bad. We're already talking about her like she's... Where's Captain Picard?"

"You'll be seeing him soon. I expect he's still with her."

"Of course."

They found themselves staring at the empty captain's chair. It looked cold and forlorn.

Wesley squeezed his eyes shut. When was the last time he had seen her? What was the last thing she said? When was the last time she scolded him? He wanted a clear picture of her bright and lively, yelling at him to cut his hair, before he could see her lying in bed like a body in the morgue.

He felt Riker's hand on his shoulder again. It was gentle, reassuring. "Are you ready?"

Wesley nodded. They stood up together. As they approached the door, Riker asked casually, "What were the two words you read in her journal?"

"At the top of some of the pages. _Dear Jack_."

The first thing Wesley saw when he walked in was Captain Picard's back. He was hunched over on a stool, deep in thought, hands clasped between his knees not unlike Wesley in the ready room. His mother was obscured by the Captain's broad shoulders. One of her hands was held between his.

Wesley had an odd mixture of feelings when he saw them. He simultaneously wanted to tear across the room to join them and felt afraid to approach them. They seemed distant somehow.

He had often felt this way on the _Enterprise_. Before they boarded, in the absence of his father, Wesley had always felt that nobody knew his mother better than he did. But standing next to the Captain, her posture changed and the corners of her mouth twitched with unspoken secrets. The shadow of an unfamiliar Beverly cast itself between them. It was different from seeing her with any other men because it both ignited something new in her and drew out dormant parts of her that existed before Wesley. He suddenly felt a burst of childlike possessiveness that wanted to snatch her hand out of his grasp. He did in some ways love the Captain. He knew in the back of his mind that at the moment, Captain Picard understood his feelings better than anyone. But right now he was sitting in Wesley's seat.

"Captain Picard…"

The Captain came out of his reverie abruptly. He turned to Wesley at first with surprise, and then with immense relief. "I was afraid we wouldn't reach you."

"We got lucky."

Captain Picard gazed at Wesley for a long time, unsure what to say, before he finally collected himself. He quickly stood up and stepped aside, offering Wesley his seat. He looked smaller and older than Wesley had remembered.

"Did Will tell you about the journal?"

"Yes."

"Have you spoken to Deanna?"

"Not yet."

Wesley sat down on the stool, but the Captain remained standing next to him, unwilling to back away from the bed. "She can hear us."

Wesley looked into his mother's face for any signs of life. It was chillingly still. "Is she… conscious?"

"We're not sure. But… you should talk to her. Make sure she doesn't feel alone." Picard brushed her bangs as though he were touching a delicate archaeological find.

"Is that what you've been doing?" The words spilled out of Wesley before he could think about the implications. He didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but Captain Picard was very sensitive to any suggestion that he was putting anything before his duties.

Picard's hand retracted quickly and his face flushed, looking a bit wounded. "Just for a little while. I really must be returning to the bridge." Despite saying this, he made no moves towards the exit.

"Captain… what will happen if Data and I can't figure out the remedy before we reach the Starbase?" Wesley asked hesitantly.

"… Well she would have to remain there. Some of the Federation's best doctors are stationed there; she would be in good hands. You could, of course, stay with her. She has many friends there who would be more than happy to arrange something for you."

"And the _Enterprise_?"

"It would have to continue on its mission, of course."

In the silence that followed Wesley didn't have to be an empath to feel the pain that fell on them like a damp cloth at the suggestion.

"Decrease to Warp 4, sir. We've got this. It just might take a few extra days." Wesley was surprised at the confidence in his voice. Inside he was panicking. That old fear he felt every time his mother was sent out on an away mission gripped him once more. Yet looking at the way the Captain's eyebrows were drawn in, and how tightly his mouth was pressed, for the first time Wesley felt like he needed to be stronger and surer than the brilliant and distinguished Captain Picard.

The Captain nodded. He seemed stuck for a moment, searching his body for some way to convey comfort. He shifted his weight a few times and then finally settled on firmly grasping both of Wesley's shoulders. "Good luck, Wesley. If there's any man for this job, it's you."

With that the Captain finally, with some reluctance, left for the bridge. Wesley turned back to his mother. He needed a moment to breathe before he could start working. Everything happened so fast and now he was sitting before his mother's unconscious figure hardly able to believe it was real. He placed a hand on her stomach, feeling its warmth, remembering the way it felt against his cheek when he was barely taller than her waist.

"Hi, Mom. Long time no see." His voice came out shaky. "You can't tell, but my hair's gotten all shaggy again. You would hate it. I'm gonna try my best with your journal. You never let me get a good look at it before, but now I'm going to find out all your secrets, just wait. I have to be honest, though, now that you can't give me that stupid satisfied smirk. All those notes you wrote me when I was a kid… I know I've always said they were dumb and embarrassing. But really… sometimes when I'm out there by myself, eating some synthetic meal, I think about them. A lot of the important things I know about you and Dad were in those notes. I would read them over and over again under the table before I threw them out. I couldn't do anything for you back then. Sometimes you would stare at the door for _so long_. I'd do something dumb or break something just to snap you out of it because I was afraid that Dad was out there somewhere, calling for you and you were going to walk out and start running after him and disappear…" Wesley wasn't sure when he stopped making sense and started crying but he was gripping the sheet, gripping her hand, holding on to anything he could as though she was going to slip out of his reach at any moment.

Just as he was regaining the presence of mind to be thankful nobody was around, Wesley felt stiff arms wrap awkwardly around his shoulders.

"There, there." The voice was flat and mechanical.

Wesley looked up to find Data in the midst of offering him a very awkward hug.

"Data, I didn't even realize you were in here." Wesley started laughing through his tears.

"I was at the desk, studying your mother's journal." He started patting Wesley's back in a steady rhythm. "I heard you crying and thought I would offer comfort. Is this comforting you?"

Wesley turned and hugged Data back, still laughing. "Yes, Data. I feel much better."

"That is good. I am glad to see you again, Wesley. I am also glad you are feeling better, because we have much work to do."

"Yeah we do, Data."

* * *

The next several days were spent in constant work. Wesley would study his mother's journal, focusing on the diary entries which he was slowly becoming deft at reading. He would pull out important information about the infection from her personal narrative, and put them in notes for Data while he was on duty elsewhere. Members of the crew would drift in and out, talking to Beverly, recounting funny stories or telling her about their days. Then midway through the day, they would switch, Wesley getting some rest (or trying to, at least) while Data worked on deciphering the more scientific aspects of the journal, translating her shorthand, and working with live samples. The Captain expressly forbade anyone, even Wesley, to be present while Data was working. He wasn't willing to risk losing another member of his crew. Together, Wesley and Data were putting the pieces together, but it was painstakingly slow.

At night, after Data sanitized and closed up shop to begin the night shift, Wesley would sneak back in, refreshed from a nap and some food, maybe a drink with Guinan at Ten Forward. He would then spend all night poring over the diary, talking aloud to his mother to keep himself company, trying not to become discouraged. Before he knew it, the lights would come up again, another night passed. Very soon after, Captain Picard would enter, holding a cup of tea and a croissant in a napkin. They would greet each other and Wesley would pretend he had just arrived himself. If the Captain noted the dark circles, he said nothing. It would be hypocritical considering the shadows that rested under his own eyes. Then Wesley would continue working while the Captain talked to his mother. Sometimes Wesley felt intrusive, as though he was holding Captain Picard back by not giving them any privacy. But that kind of thing seemed trivial compared to his need to continue working.

On the sixth night at 0430 hours, Wesley Crusher was still wide awake at his mother's desk. In fact, his day was less than halfway done. He had successfully shifted his sleep cycle to clock his waking hours roughly between 1800 and 1200, ship time, though most of his "sleeping" hours were spent tossing and turning. He felt closer to his mother than he ever had before, privy to her most intimate thoughts. Sometimes he wanted to skip entire portions of it that were too personal, but he was too afraid he would miss something crucial.

 _Dear Jack,_

 _I know I should be focused on helping these patients; I am determined to solve this before we reach the Starbase. But… Jean-Luc has been having trouble sleeping again. I find myself going to his quarters at late hours after I've exhausted my ability to work to find him awake. I should rest, I really should, but instead I'm up even later, drinking tea and talking about everything and nothing. Can you believe, Jean-Luc tries to drink Earl Grey in the middle of the night? I swap it out for mint or chamomile every night I visit. Last night, I didn't even make it back to my quarters. The herbal tea was doing its job and I was lounging on his couch and I don't know what we were even talking about but the next thing I knew the lights were on and Jean Luc was already replicating breakfast. He was very kind, but he's always very kind and I'm afraid I'm slipping. We've been toeing the line again, and I feel like waking up in his quarters was me stepping over it, even if nothing happened. My priorities are becoming muddled and I feel like I'm neglecting my work. And I feel like I'm forgetting you, Jack, and that makes me more afraid than any medical mystery. It was easier when Wesley was here. He looks so much like you and every year his voice sounds more like yours. But I've been alone for a while now… except for Jean-Luc. Sometimes on nights like last night, it feels like we're the only two people in this sector. It was the version of him that lives in my head that said it—"We've never needed a crew."_

 _I can't think about this now, though. I'm so close to stabilizing this formula. I feel like I've been compromised. Today I will prescribe him a sleep aid, and tonight I will go straight to my quarters._

 _Love,  
Beverly_

As if summoned by her words, Captain Picard entered the room. Wesley froze; before 0500 hours was too early for him to be here, even under the circumstances. He really wasn't in the mood for a lecture. He grabbed the journal and ducked under the desk. He could smell the Earl Grey from where he was curled up between the drawers.

"Good morning, Beverly. It seems that I've actually beaten Wesley here this morning. All the better. I was beginning to suspect that he slept here." (Wesley crouched lower.) "He is very dedicated. I wish he rested more, as I'm sure you do as well."

Wesley snuck a peek around the desk drawers. Captain Picard was sitting on the stool, one hand holding his tea cup as it rested on his knee, the other playing with the fingers on one of his mother's hands.

"I still can't sleep well. I was worried about you all that week, you know. At first it was just a restless night or two. But then I'd find myself wondering what you were doing, how late you would be working. I'd lie awake waiting for you to show up at my door all in a fuss about my tea." He stopped to chuckle. Wesley felt very uncomfortable. He didn't feel like these parts of their relationship were something he was supposed to read or hear. Sure, he had always been aware of them. But these were moments meant to be shared by two people, and he was a voyeur.

"Tonight I was up thinking about the night we met. Jack told me about this amazing woman over dinner, and I thought he was exaggerating, like he always did about the women he was interested in. But when he introduced us… I couldn't take my eyes off of you. Do you remember? The younger ones in our crew were all going out before we left orbit, and you and your medical school friends joined us. When he introduced us, honestly…" he chuckled. "Your hair was so bright and you were wearing that green dress that made your eyes just…" he trailed off. "I must admit I admired you from afar but could barely get out two words to you all evening. Do you remember the end of the night? Jack had gotten so drunk—one last time before we were confined to synthehol for God knows how long. You and I were outside the bar on a bench and Jack was passed out. We talked for the first time. His head was on your lap, like it would be for years to come and you were stroking his hair absently as though you had been doing it your whole life. But you were looking at me. I don't even remember what we were talking about but when you laughed I thought, oh boy am I in trouble now. I wish we could go back to that moment. Maybe in another version of our lives, things would have turned out differently. I don't think I can bear to lose you both."

Wesley hoped that if he squeezed his eyes hard enough he would disappear. If he was discovered now, he and the Captain would never be able to face each other again. He tried to think about anything that would prevent him from listening in on the Captain's most private recollections. He was failing. All he could do was keep as still as possible.

"Beverly… Beverly I miss you." That's all Captain Picard could muster before falling into a heavy silence. Wesley chanced a peek around the desk. The first thing he saw was the cup of tea, almost empty, sitting on the floor by the stool. Picard was leaning over, clasping her hand and pressing his forehead against hers. Their closeness was unexpected, and Wesley felt the sudden need to hold his breath, as though even a slight shift in the atmosphere could break the tenuous thread that held them together in that moment.

Wesley sank back into the shadows of the desk. He held his mother's journal to his chest and waited. He wasn't sure how much time passed. He dozed, leaning his forehead against the cool metal of the drawers. When he awoke again the Captain was gone. Data was crouching before him.

"Wesley, this does not appear comfortable."

Wesley extracted himself from under the desk. His neck and shoulders were cramped. "No it's not, Data."

"Perhaps you should return to your quarters and rest. It is almost time for me to begin working in quarantine."

Wesley looked at the clock on one of the monitors and immediately swore. It was just past 1100. "Yeah, you're probably right. I wasted a lot of hours though."

"Your complexion and body language indicate that you are weary. Your thought processes will likely be more efficient if you rest."

"Alright, I get it."

"Did you learn anything of note in your readings?" Data motioned to the journal. Wesley set it on the table.

"Sort of."

Data tilted his head to one side, presumably to mimic curiosity.

"Don't worry about it, Data. Nothing important."

Wesley paused by his mother's bed on his way out. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't get as much work done as I wanted to today. But I'll be back soon. We're close, we really are. I just hope we're close enough." He brushed a brief kiss on her forehead, but then felt slightly awkward leaning over her after what he'd witnessed early that morning. He quickly straightened and walked out. A stiff drink and a long nap were in order.


	4. Data

Before Data began his research each day, he tended to each patient. He changed their gowns, cleansed them, and made official records of all their vitals. He attempted to, in accordance with the Captain's orders, speak to each patient. He spoke aloud to each one a subset of the calculations that were currently going on in his head. However, when he got to Doctor Crusher, he was inclined to offer up something more given their friendship, and yet did not have the capacity to determine what defined that "more". He decided to speak about things that were indicative of their more intimate acquaintance. He spoke of people they knew in common, about staff and patients in the sickbay. He told her about Wesley's hard work, and how he was reminded of how surprisingly high functioning he had always found Wesley's mental capacities for someone both human and so young. He had found that humans often enjoyed hearing praise about their offspring.

He felt unusually uncomfortable taking the responsibilities of caring for Doctor Crusher's unconscious body. He was aware that nudity was a very intimate sight for most humans. He himself did not have the ability to feel embarrassed, and he knew that as a doctor, Beverly Crusher understood the necessity. Yet as he peeled off her gown and sanitized her body he felt some reservation in letting his memory circuits record the image of her bare and vulnerable. He noted that after a full week of life support, her body had waned slightly, her bones intruding on softer flesh and the skin looking parched and dull. He wondered how many people, aside from himself, had been privy to this sight.

"I found Wesley asleep under your desk this morning. I believe that the oddity of it is something you may find humorous." Data noted as he lifted Doctor Crusher's body, supporting her on his shoulder as he tied the gown behind her neck. He paused before placing her back down, holding her in his arms for a moment.

"Our position is very similar to an embrace. I found that Wesley was comforted when I embraced him. Perhaps this is comforting to you as well." He patted her back. "There, there. I have tried several permutations of your formula and each time it has been stable for longer. I believe I have come quite close to making the formula work. I still have several variables which I must determine, but the probability of solving it is currently over fifty percent. Meaning, more likely than not." He placed her gently back onto the bed.

He smoothed her hair back. "The Captain, Wesley, and Counselor Troi often touch your hair in this manner. I must assume, then, that it is a gesture of affection." He patted her bangs and gently pushed a lock of hair behind her hair before stepping back from the biobed. "I must return to my work now."

Data unsealed the samples and resumed where he left off during his last session. He let over an hour pass in silence before he spoke again. "Perhaps it is time that I talked to you again. I think it would be important to note that at times when I speak to you like this, my circuits begin to anticipate your response even before it recalls the fact that you can give none. It is odd to speak to someone as though I am engaging in a conversation, and yet getting no reaction or affirmation, which is usually the objective of communication. I believe my dissatisfaction in this type of interaction can be compared to human feelings of longing. You could say that I 'miss' you, Doctor."

He paused and walked over to her bedside and sat on the stool while continuing to run calculations in his head.

"I have been curious, Doctor, about your consciousness. Counselor Troi has said that you respond emotionally to our presence. However, I do not know what that means. When I touch you, my sensors input all of the variables, reading attributes like shape, texture, and temperature, so that I may access my memory banks for previous occurrences of this particular permutation, and create record of this new instance of it. All of this information is then added as another variable in the many that make up my awareness of what is 'present'. However, I can only react physically and mentally to such information." He placed his hand on Doctor Crusher's. "How is your body responding to this? Can you understand what I am saying? Although you cannot react physically, do you react mentally? Your brain activity is at times more similar to that of a person awake, and at times like that of a person who is asleep. Does that mean you are at times 'awake' and at times 'asleep'?" He watched her, but as expected, received no response. "If I had the answers to such questions, perhaps I may understand the nature of your condition slightly better. It is however, futile to ask, even if you can comprehend me. Yet, I have watched many of your friends sit by you and tell you very important, personal things. I do not understand why humans are more honest in situations where honesty is futile. Yesterday afternoon I accompanied Geordi here during our leisure hours. He admitted to having accidentally damaged one of your personal plants two years ago. He then apologized for the incident. Why did he choose to apologize now, when you cannot respond with forgiveness?"

He stared at her for a few moments. He did not bother to feign blinking, since she could not be made uncomfortable by his gaze. "Why is it that, more so than anyone else who has visited, Captain Picard treats you with a far greater degree of affection when you cannot return it? Is it not the nature of humans to show affection with the hope of having it returned in kind? I ask you this because I do not believe it would be appropriate to ask either the Captain or you such a question normally; the nature of affection is not something that is spoken so openly about, especially with one's superior officers. However, it seems in accordance to the ritual of honesty and openness being practiced by the rest of the crew in your presence."

Data fell silent and returned to the desk to jot down the results of one of his mental calculations. He opened her journal, and continued analyzing some molecular structures. He had identified a particularly puzzling squiggle in one of the diagrams. He started up a new set of calculations while still running some longer computations. Some more hours passed before he looked up across the room at Doctor Crusher, still lying as he left her, one hand slightly further away from her body than the other. He returned to her side and shifted the hand so she lay symmetrically.

He lingered on her fingers, letting them rest loosely on his. "The question that returns to my thoughts most often is the most difficult. I do not think I would, under other circumstances, ask it aloud." He paused, leaned forward, and lowered the volume of his voice, modulating its vibrations to impart a softer, gentler sound. "Doctor, are you aware that you might be dying? Are you… afraid? This fear of death is something which I wish I could experience. I believe it is a vital component to the human equation—essential to the desire to achieve ones fullest potential. However, even when I have believed I may be nearing the end of my existence, I was unable to feel the fear that drives humans to parse through their minds to seek out that which is most important, most essential to their being. I cannot 'soul search', as you might call it. If indeed you are conscious, you currently have much time to 'soul search'. Despite your undesirable situation, I find that I desire to experience your circumstance. I believe this means that I envy you, Doctor."

He slid his hand out from under hers. "I must start my night shift at the bridge soon." Data began sanitizing the room, working at inhuman speeds. "Do not worry, Doctor Crusher. As the probability of success is slightly better than that of failure, you are marginally more likely to recover. Despite there still being a chance of failure, I have programmed myself to access the information on the likelihood of the positive outcome before the negative one. This is as close as I can get to the feeling of hope."

On his way out, Data stopped at Doctor Crusher's bedside. "I have yet to determine which manner of 'goodbye' is most appropriate for our relationship. Due to his diplomatic sensibilities, I consider the Captain to generally be a good model of human behavior for me to follow. However, at times I find his interpersonal skills in more informal relationships to be less generally well-received than, say, Commander Riker. The ways he says goodbye to you," Data experimentally squeezed her hand with a little extra pressure and pressed his face against hers gently, "They are not something I have often witnessed." He lifted his face and relaxed his grip. "Wesley is usually quite brief in his goodbyes." Data stooped down and set a quick kiss on her forehead. "It suggests routine—many years of a repeated action. Counselor Troi and Commander Riker use the same method of goodbye. They often exhibit similar mannerisms. Since my relationship to you is more akin to theirs than Wesley's, and their method less odd than the Captain's, I will follow their example until I have formulated something of my own." Data brushed one of her arms with his hand and placed a quick kiss on her cheek. "Goodnight, Doctor Crusher."

With that Data shut the lights and returned to the bridge.

The Captain was there, awaiting Data to switch shifts. He looked less commanding than usual, bent forward, gazing into the passing stars with his chin resting on his hand, pressing his fingers firmly against his lips. His eyes were beginning to sink into his brow from many nights spent either sleepless or drifting in and out of troubling dreams and distant memories.

"Captain, it is time for me to begin the night shift."

The Captain straightened quickly, yanked out of some deep thought. He stood up. "Any progress on the infection?"

"Yes." When the Captain was still standing in front of Data, looking expectantly at him for elaboration, Data continued. "I do not think I could adequately explain the complex nature of my progress in the time we have here."

The Captain offered a weak smile. "Yes, of course, Data. Of course." He nodded a few times, glanced around the bridge, before stepping aside from the Captain's chair. "You have the bridge, Mister Data."


	5. Riker

Commander Riker refused to open his eyes. Another day had crept by. They were now only three days from the Starbase. Both Data and Wesley had insisted that they were close to a breakthrough for days, but unable to quantify what "close" really meant. A difficult decision was coming soon, and Riker didn't want to be the one to make it. He buried his face deeper into the comforting smells of pillows and sheets.

"Imzadi." The word was murmured very close to his ear, and he could feel it pressing into his mind, summoning him back into the world. "I know you're awake, Will. There's no use pretending."

Riker opened his eyes reluctantly, and only because he knew that the first sight he would see was Deanna sitting on the edge of the bed, dark curls tumbling wildly over her shoulders with a life of their own. "It's 0630 already. I would recommend getting dressed if you're going to make it to the morning meeting. I _will_ leave you behind." It's true, she would.

He groaned in protest and tackled her waist, pulling her back into bed with him. "What if we called in sick? Spent the day here, catching up on sleep, reading… and other things."

Deanna giggled as Riker attempted to burrow into the pleats of her nightdress. She pushed him away, rolling him onto his back and sitting on top of him. "Will. I have been very patient with you, letting you sleep in my quarters _twice_ these past couple of weeks. But... avoiding what's happening isn't going to change anything."

"Yeah…" Riker sighed, tugged a stray curl and watched it spring back into place. "You know I know."

Deanna smiled and gently ran a finger along his jaw. "Sometimes I need to say it out loud before you're convinced, though." She dropped down onto the bed next to him and the two of them stared at the ceiling for a moment. "But I am glad you've stayed. I needed it too."

He collected her fingertips in his large palm and gave them a squeeze. "I know."

William Riker had known Jean-Luc Picard for a number of years, but he had not seen him quite like this in a long time. Sure, there had been events that had understandably shaken him, like capture and torture, but this kind of situation was different: irrational. Captain Picard was not an irrational man.

The meeting passed with stiff reports and stilted exchanges, as though everyone in the room had been replaced by Data. It was agonizing. The anxiety in the ship was heightening as they grew closer to the Starbase. By the end of his shift, Riker knew there was only one person he could really talk to. Moreover, he really needed a drink.

Riker never needed to seek out Guinan; she had a way of just appearing when she was needed. He had barely settled on a soft chair by the observation windows in Ten Forward when he heard the sound of thick glass settling on the table before him. A rustle of fabric later, he was face to face with the beetle-eyed bartender.

"Rough day, huh, Commander?"

Riker reached for his drink in response. "What have we got here?"

Guinan settled into the chair opposite Riker. "Sometimes you just need a good old fashioned."

He smirked and took a sip. "You always know, Guinan."

The two of them looked out at the passing stars; this was something the crew had been doing a lot of lately, as though hoping their gaze would slow the ship's course.

"You've known the Captain for quite some time now, Guinan."

"I have."

"You must know what's on my mind."

She nodded slowly. The two locked gazes. She smiled, folding her hands on her lap. "Jean-Luc and I have never spoken of it out loud, no. But after living a number of centuries, you begin to move beyond the need for direct speech."

"It doesn't take centuries—just a very close friend."

Guinan seemed a little bit charmed by this sentiment. Her lips quirked slightly and she leaned back in her seat. "Perhaps."

"I know they've known each other for a long time."

"He's known her longer than he's known me, actually. She's maybe the only one on this ship who could say that. But I'd venture to say that I know him a bit better."

Riker chuckled. "How come?"

"Beverly doesn't see the parts of Jean-Luc she doesn't want to see—the parts that frighten her. The parts of him that he's laying bare now that her eyes are closed. You've noticed, haven't you?"

Riker was uncomfortable with the blunt acknowledgment of the elephant in the starship. He had always noticed—was in fact, secretly rooting for—this strange something that had always been between the Captain and the Doctor. He saw the way they drifted towards each other in any room they occupied, leaned close when they talked as though they were exchanging secrets. He and Beverly would meet in the turbolift at late hours, neither needing to ask where the other had been. Sometimes, even in the most mundane conversations, Jean-Luc and Beverly's eyes would meet and Riker could feel himself, along with everyone else in the room, melt into obscurity outside the sharp intensity of their gaze. "She's… very important to him."

"He loves her. You barely have to be sentient to see it."

"It's strange to hear the words spoken. For some reason I didn't want to say it out loud."

"Neither do they. They cradle the words inside them like they're made of glass, afraid they'll break somewhere on the way to their lips."

Riker traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip. "What's going to happen when we land?"

He heard Guinan sigh but didn't look up. "Well. Either Jean-Luc is going to have to make a very difficult decision, or you are. It's bothering you, I can tell. I've been watching the burden become heavier on your shoulders every day."

Riker rubbed his eyes. "It certainly is a burden. She's my friend. They're both my friends. I don't want to have to be the one to do this to either of them."

"But you know you'll do the right thing when the time comes."

"That's the problem."

They were silent a moment. Riker downed the rest of his drink and then gazed disappointedly into his glass.

"Synthehol not doing it tonight?"

Riker shook his head.

"Maybe I could spare a few glasses of my personal collection—just for tonight."

* * *

Riker wasn't sure how late it was. He swayed slightly as the turbolift lurched into motion. Whatever Guinan had brought out was very effective in diminishing his sobriety, but less effective on his worries. Before he could stop himself, he was in sick bay, the door to the quarantine room sliding open before him.

As soon as he walked in he noticed shuffling in the corner.

"Wesley, don't bother trying to hide. Captain Picard may be too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice, but everyone else knows you're here all night."

Wesley froze, positioned to make a dive, clutching the journal and an armful of notes. He slowly sat back down.

Riker waved his hand, motioning him to carry on with whatever he was working on. Wesley didn't need pressing to resume his work. He plugged his music implants back into his ears and hunched over the desk again.

Riker sat down on the stool by Beverly's bedside and let out a weary sigh. "Good evening Beverly. I'm sorry I haven't come to visit you as often in the past few days." He patted her hand gently. "It's become harder and harder to see you like this. You've always been so willful and headstrong. Quiet Beverly just doesn't seem right. I never told you how much you're like an older sister I never had. Secretly, I love the way you tease me; you have quite a way with it, sometimes even worse than Deanna. You're may be the only person who can give me a run for my money in poker—and I don't say that to just anyone. Sometimes I can catch you, though. You do this thing where your lip and your eyebrow twitch at the same time," he laughed. "Dead giveaway. Beverly I _know_ you're going to be okay. You're so brilliant that you made sure of it yourself. I was talking to Data today and he says it's all there in your notes. You really figured it out. But… time is a funny thing, the way it fills up a whole galaxy one minute, and slips through the cracks when you're not paying attention. The way our own time interacts with others', dissolving into each other and then separating again without warning."

Riker wasn't sure how much sense he was making, but the suppressed words were bubbling up as a byproduct of the stress and alcohol combining in the pit of his stomach. "I know it's an unspoken rule that we never talk about this… but we all know that your time is all wrapped up in Jean-Luc's in these complicated ways. The way you dance around each other honestly makes me dizzy most of the time. And it's not just Jean-Luc. Deanna would really feel your absence, too. Her mind is so tense when she thinks about it… like it's trembling. Geordi and Worf think of all the times you've saved them and are agonized by their helplessness. And I… I don't want to leave you behind. You will recover, I know you will. But by then, we may be lightyears away, and sometimes I'm afraid that if we let you step off the _Enterprise_ , you'll never return. It happened once already. The selfish reason is obvious—I don't want to lose a friend to the vastness of space, not to mention the best Chief Medical Officer a starship could ask for. But there's also a part of me that understands that given the slightest opportunity, you and Jean-Luc will miss your window, and I don't want to be the one who left the door open."

Riker paused, lowering his voice even though nobody could hear him. "I know I shouldn't say this but I'm worried that Jean-Luc won't be able to make the call. He knows what needs to be done, but he won't be able to bring himself to do it. I know that at that moment, he will depend on me to do it for him. I have these horrible nightmares of pulling him away from your unresponsive body. He's always completely straight-faced and unemotional, but he just won't let go of your hand and I have to pry off his fingers one by one. He's going to be dignified about it when the time comes, because he's always so dignified, to the point where it's damn annoying, actually… but…"

Riker knew that the Captain would never admit how much it hurt him. He would shut himself up in his quarters and hide behind books and they would all have to pretend they didn't see his heart breaking into a bunch of little pieces, kicked around the bridge and crushed under their heels.

Riker felt delicate fingers squeeze his shoulders. He let go of Beverly's hand and leaned back, closing his eyes as he felt the back of his head sink into the soft chest behind him.

"I thought you might be here." Deanna's voice was barely over a whisper. She let her hands travel across his shoulders and wrap around his neck as she rested her chin on his forehead. "Come on. You're going to need some water if you're going to be ready for command tomorrow morning. Don't say any more senseless things to Beverly—she's unsettled, I can feel it. I'm beginning to think she can actually understand us, Will. I only heard the last bit of what you were saying, but your words made her feel very troubled… sorrowful even."

They both watched her in silence for a moment, as though expecting some sort of physical reaction. Riker shook his head. "I'm sorry, Beverly. I've just been unloading stupid things on you. Of course it would make you feel worse…" Riker felt ashamed of himself now, doubly so if Beverly could actually understand him.

Deanna gave him a squeeze before straightening. "Let's go, Will. I'll make one last exception tonight."

The two of them gave Beverly quick kisses on her cheek and bid her goodnight before spending another night pressed together in Deanna's quarters, watching the time pass through the dark.


	6. Beverly

Mornings were like waking up in a familiar dream: Wesley at age two, when he had just begun sleeping in his own bedroom, slipping into Beverly and Jack's room every morning and sitting cross-legged at their feet, his little toes touching the tips of theirs. He would sit there and talk to them at length about whatever came to his mind, which at that age was some nonsensical babble, sometimes singing nursery rhymes, until either Jack or Beverly grudgingly woke up to make him breakfast.

Beverly assumed it was morning, but really it could have been any point in the day. She had lost track of the cyclical nature of time and had begun to only perceive it as one continuous stream that she dipped in and out of occasionally. The sound of Wesley's voice never failed to wake her. She would drift towards it, taking a few seconds to parse reality from the memories and dreams that whispered in her mind.

"Mom, we made a lot of progress today. Yesterday, Data had recreated the cure for the fourth time, and it stayed stable for the second time. We have to run some more tests before we can try it on you, but I think we're gonna get it! But... we're due to dock at the Starbase in just about 48 hours. If we haven't made a breakthrough and experienced some success by then, the Enterprise has to leave us behind. If that happens, Data can't help me anymore, and I have no idea if their researchers and computers will be able to continue the work as efficiently. I don't know if they'll even let me help. And… I don't want you to get separated from the life you lead here. But I can see it already—the moment that separates then and now. Just like when dad died… and when we transferred here, when I left for the Acadamy, when I left the Academy," he stopped to chuckle and the sound sent a calming sensation through Beverly. _Ah, yes. It was Jack's turn to make breakfast. She could always hear them laughing in the kitchen. And she could sleep for a little while longer..._ Wesley's continued to speak but his words faded as she slipped back out of consciousness.

She was woken sharply by new smells entering the room. New, but familiar: Butter. Soap. Tea. _Jean-Luc_. Her heartbeat quickened. It was breakfast time. He always kept their breakfast date, even when she couldn't be the best conversationalist. It was comforting to hear him talk about everything happening on the ship. She could imagine herself back in the observation deck, or the bridge, or his ready room with a cup of tea. She could imagine that she had the chance to see those things again, and carry on as they were. But she knew what was happening. She had studied the patients in depth. She had long suspected that they may be conscious in immobile states. She loved Wesley and trusted Data but she couldn't know for sure that they could make it in time; it was all there but she knew how disorderly and indecipherable her notes were, and how fragile her solution really was. The moment she began to lose motor control, she knew she only had about a month to live. Some days, listening to Wesley, she was filled with hope. She pictured her and Jean-Luc in his quarters, the half-eaten food spread out between them. She could see his awkward smile so perfectly.

But sometimes when she heard the sound of Will's voice when he talked to her, sensed Diana's emotional distress, she became afraid that they would reach the Starbase and she would have to listen to their goodbyes without being able to say out loud how deeply she cared for them. At times she imagined her hands reaching out and grasping for them but felt nothing and her whole being was clenched in excruciating pain.

Most of the time, she wanted to cry. She felt it fill up her throat and drown her brain, but her tear ducts remained dry and barren. Instead she was locked in place as everyone hovered above her, whispered secrets and laid bare honest truths that she couldn't comfort or return.

She couldn't silence Jean-Luc with a look or a dismissive gesture. She couldn't change the subject when he treaded territories she wasn't ready for. She had kept their relationship in check even as it threatened to burst, like an overstuffed suitcase that she had to sit on in order to zip shut. Now she was unable to stifle all the feelings that came spilling out of him, flooding her with its warmth until she thought she might dissolve.

She felt she might be dissolving anyway. Her mind drifted from her body, stretching the thread that tethered her to her physical form. As she floated above the weight of reality and sensation, she began to find bits of lost time scattered in the void.

First there was the lost time with her son. She heard his voice, deeper and more substantial than before, but pictured him at various ages between six and eighteen. In reality, he would be nearing twenty-four only having seen her a handful of times in the years between. Then, unwillingly, she began to picture Jack. Wesley's voice just sounded _so much_ like his, sometimes she would imagine the three of them sitting on a couch together, Jack telling her about his recent mission as Wesley slept with his head on Jack's lap and his little legs curled up on Beverly's. She used to often dream about the life they might have had together, saw Jack's shadow at every significant event. She couldn't fit all of those lost moments in her arms if she tried. She willed herself to pass by them, even as they crackled loudly under her feet like dried leaves.

Other small regrets prodded at her as she navigated the silence. She held them in her hands and promised each of them that if she made it out of here, if she could interact with the world around her once more, she would not forget them. She allowed herself to be lost in this process, as always dancing around the brightest collection of memories and emotions even as it flickered in her peripheral vision, threatening to scald her with its heat.

Then of course, she heard her name, tiptoeing into her ears like a thief disguised in soft, deep tones.

"Beverly."

She felt herself being sucked back into her body, ripped out of her solitary haven and onto the cool surface of the biobed. Reality rushed in with force, the ambient hum of the ship's core enveloping her. She felt his hand gently brush her forehead, grazing the tips of her hair, tracing she shape of her eyebrow. It was a touch she had become accustomed to in the past… how long had it been? What time was it?

"Beverly… I am fortunate to have caught you alone. This rarely happens. It seems you have a great number of friends on this ship."

She felt strangely relieved to hear those words. She could no longer be sure how much time passed between visitors. She was vaguely aware that sometimes she was simply unable to distinguish the real voices from the imaginary ones. She felt alone even when she was not.

"I was dining alone in my ready room when some old thoughts began to disturb me. I had to wait until it was time for Data to assume his night shift before I came to see you, but I spent the rest of my evening feeling very troubled. Do you…" he sighed and took her hand between both his. Everything except the texture of his fingerprints disappeared. "Do you remember when I took on Sarek's emotions years ago? You were the only one by my side when it happened. At that time, I was so tormented, so broken up that I couldn't distinguish his pain from mine. But now, as the years pass and I grow older and, I hope, wiser, I am able to look back on that night and begin to parse the emotions that were purely his and the ones that we shared in common. Yet here we are, Beverly, what seems like a lifetime later, and I feel like I have learned nothing from such a significant experience."

There it was—the softness in his voice that crumbled all of the fragile parts inside her. It somehow slipped through the tiny cracks in the walls she had built against his kindness, his strength, and his attractiveness. It was longing and affection all blended into one liquid that dripped into her thoughts, trickling into the pool she tried to keep hidden in the back of her mind until it overflowed and filled her from her ears to the tips of her toes. The unspoken word tumbled out in the chaos and fluttered in her chest, rattling her ribcage with its need to come out.

"Beverly… it's only when you probably can't even understand me that I can say these things out loud. When you were awake… did I tell you how much I value our friendship? When I am with you, I feel more myself than when I am alone. I saw in Sarek's turmoil some part of me… how sometimes I give too little, keep too much to myself. The way we hesitate at each step, always hold back some parts of ourselves. But now that we are here… and you may not…" Jean-Luc's voice faltered slightly. It didn't quite crack, but its usual steadiness wavered momentarily. "… I feel this deep regret. Was I there when you needed me? Beverly… Did I love you enough?"

There it was, bitter and mournful. Beverly had never once heard the word uttered in a happy context between them. She could picture it clearly by the way his voice trailed off and his hands squeezed hers more tightly. She knew his eyes were filling up with tears he didn't want to admit to and that he was squeezing them shut, clenching his teeth and pulling himself back together. She wanted to touch his cheek and tell him it was okay, that she could hear every word and that he shouldn't be afraid to cry because she was afraid too, and that she was sorry she never said any of these things out loud either even though she felt them too, every day. He had always loved her more than enough, but she shut herself up, as though her acknowledgment was the only thing that could make it real.

Beverly's whole body became tense, the words screaming inside her skull. Everything was swollen and aching with tears but she lay bound by her own flesh, her eyes painfully dry. Unable to break through the barrier between them, she crawled desperately away from his voice until she reached a dark, empty corner in a secluded part of her mind. She tiptoed through the hallways of her childhood, back into a small bed that smelled like simpler days. She could hear her grandmother humming in the kitchen as she pulled the quilt over her head and waited for sleep to take her.

* * *

"It's been nearly eight hours since we administered the treatment. Do you think it's working?"

Lieutenant Ogawa's voice woke Beverly slowly.

"If she's not responsive in the next 6 hours, we'll have to leave her behind on the Starbase." Will Riker. Beverly got the sense that there were many people gathered around her. She could hear the fabrics of their clothing brush against each other, and feel their warmth surround her.

"It will take her a little while to get her motor abilities back. Even if she is awake, she might not be able to move for a bit…" Wesley explained. "I wish she would open her eyes soon, though..." She could hear the anxiety in his voice. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, but her body felt leaden.

"I'm worried. In the last 24 hours, I haven't been able to get any emotional readings for her. They had been weakening for several days, but I felt like she had actually slipped into an unconscious coma." Deanna was standing somewhere next to Will.

"That may be an indication of her condition advancing." Data, his voice actually sounding slightly concerned. "There is no way to tell if Doctor Crusher's antidote will work this far into the infection's progress."

A tense silence passed around Beverly as she tried to parse the information she was hearing. They had done it. But it was true, her condition had been worsening. Yet here she was, conscious again. But her body felt so heavy… but her body _felt_. The bounds that were holding her down felt looser somehow. She struggled against them but couldn't manage movement. She relaxed for a moment.

"I… feel something faint from her now, though." Deanna leaned in closer. "Beverly? Are you awake?"

 _Deanna_. She tried to project her feelings as strongly as possible onto her friend's presence.

"Yes, yes… She's reacting to me. I can feel her mind again. This is progress!" She could hear some relief in Deanna's voice.

"Mom… can you hear us? Come on… try to open your eyes… please?" She felt a gentle hand on her forehead. Its shape was familiar. She tried her hardest to move towards the faint light that she had almost forgotten about—the sickbay lights behind her eyelids. Slowly, she peeled open her dry, stiff eyelids. The world blinded her for a moment. The sickbay lights were bright and painful. And then Wesley's face came into focus and her mouth twitched into something very near a smile. She parted her lips to try to say something—he was looking at Will and hadn't noticed her yet—but they were dry and her mouth was parched. Her voice refused to come out but she let out a shaky rasp. Wesley looked down sharply and then she saw his face fill with relief.

"Mom!" All eyes in the room were now fixed on her. Data stepped aside and she heard the chirp of his communicator. She didn't catch what he was muttering because she was too busy looking into all the faces she didn't think she would see again. "Mom… Don't try to talk yet. Your vocal cords have been out of use for some time."

She was just beginning to relax, basking in the sight of her friends when she heard the door hiss open. The sounds and smells she had come to recognize immediately flooded her. He all but pushed Will aside to stand next to Wesley. He froze under her gaze. Everyone else faded away. She tried to move towards him but instead just twitched her arms and jerked her shoulders slightly, still too weak to do anything more. She tried to speak but could only manage a hoarse whisper that sounded something like " _Jean-Luc_ …"

Jean-Luc momentarily lost sight of boundaries and professionalism and any reservations. To everyone's surprise he leaned forward and collected her shoulders into his arms and held her tightly, cradling her head in his hand. She pressed her face into his uniform, inhaling the smell of Starfleet regulation soap mixed with old books and bergamot.

"I was afraid I wouldn't see your eyes again." He whispered into her hair, barely audible.

All of the tears suddenly found their ways to her eyes and spilled out. It was the most relief she had felt in a long time. She wanted to tell them all so many things, but she couldn't manage to find the words. There was no rush, though. She had time now.

* * *

This is not the ending, I promise.


	7. Perchance to Dream

Thanks for sticking around and reading my little tryst with TNG fanfiction. All your feedback has been much appreciated. Sorry the ending is a bit longer than I had anticipated. Hope you've enjoyed my work!

* * *

The senior staff of the Enterprise took a well-deserved break after they docked at the Starbase. Beverly Crusher began to recover, slowly but surely, over the two weeks of shore leave they were granted. After the first week, she was given leave to return to her quarters. After ten days, she began venturing on short walks through the malls and arboretums, on the arm of her attentive son.

She spent her mornings in physical therapy with Lieutenant Ogawa and Worf. In the afternoons she and Data went over documentation of the infection and its antidote in anticipation of the paper the two of them would write together when she was well. In the evenings, Deanna Troi would come to her quarters, partially for counselling, partially for eating chocolate and watching old films in bed.

Beverly had lost a considerable amount of weight in her weeks unconscious. Her uniform fit a bit loosely, and Deanna was determined to help her gain back her shape. Even more so than a counselling patient, Deanna saw her as a friend in need of love and support.

They talked about Beverly's career, her accomplishments. Deanna wanted her to be as confident and strong as ever, even though she felt a bit of regret in Beverly. It was too late for two of the patients. They didn't make it through treatment, and Deanna sensed that Beverly held herself responsible for this.

They talked about Wesley, and how Beverly could move forward making a stronger bond with him, not losing their closeness through the distance of time and space.

There were things even Deanna was afraid to touch on. She sensed strong indications of falsehood when Beverly talked about her time unconscious-about how she heard voices but couldn't understand words.

Deanna knew Beverly was lying. Beverly knew Deanna was aware of this. The two of them danced around this topic. Deanna saw her fear and understood it. Everyone was very honest to Beverly's comatose body. Too honest, in some cases. Beverly was afraid of acknowledging this, admitting she knew secrets she didn't feel like she deserved. The things you tell someone on their deathbed are meant to stay buried in their grave.

Still, as the two of them shared a bowl of chocolate ice cream while watching a post-noir holofilm, Beverly's voice trembled between the dialogue.

"I dreamt about Jack a lot."

Deanna kept her eyes on the film, knowing that direct attention might scare Beverly away from openness. "Mmhm?"

"Well... there were times when I thought I might be joining him, wherever he may be. I know its against logic and science, but sometimes, I heard his voice clearer than I had in years. It was calling me. Back to that cramped bed in his Starfleet quarters, right before he shipped out. The places we learned each others bodies and stories..."

Deanna traced her spoon on the edge of the bowl. "Did you want to follow him?"

"Sometimes, yes..." Deanna stole a glance at Beverly. Her eyes were fixed and shining, the reflection of the film dancing across her pupils. But she wasn't watching anymore. She was seeing something distant, just out of reach. She broke her gaze suddenly and looked down. "... but there are things here I can't easily leave behind. Wesley, my work, my friends..."

Beverly's voice trailed off and her lips pressed together like she was holding something back. Deanna knew what that something was. Everyone did-they didn't need empathic abilities. She nestled her head between Beverly's neck and shoulder.

"When are you going to tell him?"

"What?"

"That you were awake. That you heard everything."

Neither of them looked away from the film. A silence enveloped them, and Deanna was afraid she had gone too far.

"I don't know. I don't know when I'll be ready. But..."

Deanna closed her eyes. She was hit with such a strong typhoon of emotions that she needed to remind herself to breathe. It was confusion wrapped in uncertainty, and fear woven with guilt and sorrow.

All of this was cradled in the soft velvety embrace of deep love, nurtured for years behind closed doors, restless and beautiful like an exotic bird in a golden cage.

The cage couldn't hold it much longer. It had grown so much, fed with such care, that its bright feathers were poking out between the bars.

"I'm afraid that I won't be able to forget. I can't make myself go back to the way things were. But... where can I go from here? Forward? Backwards? I just don't know."

"There's only one place you can go, Beverly. And it's neither here nor there."

"Where?"

Deanna plucked the bowl from Beverly's hand and set it on the floor next to her bed. She leaned back again, put an arm around her friend and held her against her neck. "The only way any of us can go... onward."

Beverly stared at the holoprojection. She had lost track of what was happening in the movie. Her hand found Deanna's and she grasped it, as though she were a child looking for support in her first steps. "Onward..."

They spoke no more about it. Still weak, and tired from her activities that day, Beverly drifted off on Deanna's shoulder.

* * *

Wesley rang the chime to his mother's quarters. Twice. Thrice. His heart began beating a bit faster. He was about to call security when Counsellor Troi opened the door.

"It's okay." She said immediately, sensing his anxiety. "She's asleep. I drifted off a bit myself, actually," she chuckled. "But I have to be getting to my next appointment."

"I thought you were on leave?" Wesley asked as he attempted to calm himself. The smallest things were setting him off. It would take a while before he could shake the feeling of imminent danger.

"I never said it was a professional appointment." She winked. "If you'll excuse me."

Wesley stepped aside. He had just been spending some time learning poker tricks from Riker, when Riker excused himself to "keep an engagement." He could barely hide his smirk as he watched Troi pass.

He found his mother lying fully dressed in the dark. Her cheekbones were even more prominent than usual, and she looked frail. His mother had always seemed so big when he was younger, with hair like wildfire and steady surgeon's hands. But now he was taller and sturdier, and she had to tilt her head up slightly to look at him.

Watching her sleep was hard. Wesley couldn't shake the fresh memories of her on the biobed, and the fear that she would never wake up. He sat on the bed next to her, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Mom?" He said softly, squeezing her shoulder gently.

His mother stirred, mumbling something incoherent. Wesley smiled. He remembered countless mornings being woken by her gentle voice, and laughed slightly at the role reversal. "Hey. It's almost dinnertime."

Her eyes fluttered open slightly, and then squeezed closed again. Her mouth twisted into a smile before she rolled over and buried her face into her pillow. "Five more minutes?" Her muffled voice pleaded.

"What's the magic word?" He mimicked his mother's chiding tone.

"Pleaaase?" She mimicked the childish whine she had to scold him out of the habit of when he was young.

He lay down next to her, staring at the ceiling. He nudged her shoulder gently with his, before turning his face to look at her pile of hair. "I missed this: just you and me versus the galaxy. The U.S.S. Crusher sailing through the stars."

His mother's face emerged from the pillow, their eyes meeting with a swell of warmth. "You're making me sad, Wesley. You really have grown up. A few years ago, you would have rather died than say something like that."

He shrugged. "It had to happen sometime. Travelling through spacetime will do that."

She leaned forward and placed an affectionate peck on his shoulder. "Alright, my Number One. What's for dinner?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked because-"

Wesley was cut off by the chirp of the door chime.

The Crushers gave each other questioning looks. They exchanged shrugs and sat up, propping themselves up on the pillows. "Come!" They called out in unison, mocking the Captain's tone, and then breaking into giggles. They heard the door open in the common area, but were too busy jostling each other with their shoulders and laughing to notice who was poking his head tentatively through the bedroom doorway.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

Both of their faces fell into shock as they snapped their gaze to meet Captain Picard's. He couldn't help but smile at the two Crushers staring at him like children caught misbehaving.

"I can come back if this is a bad time."

"N-No." Wesley jumped up to his feet. "Is everything okay?"

Beverly sat up straighter and crossed her legs. The Captain was in simple civvies, his expression a mixture of affection and awkwardness. "Yes, yes of course. I just... Well I was wondering... hoping, rather... do you have any plans for dinner?"

Wesley and his mother exchanged glances and Captain Picard watched a silent conversation pass between their eyes. They looked back at him.

"Wesley and I had plans to have dinner together, but you're welcome to join us. Wesley's picking our dinner course tonight."

"If I'm not imposing..."

"Not at all." Wesley chimed in. "I'm going to start replicating the food." With that Wesley made a quick retreat. He felt nervous in their presence all of a sudden. There was something vulnerable about the way they approached each other. The ease he had always observed in their relationship had hit a hiccup. Something was changing.

He heard their voices drifting through the doorway.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better everyday. Everyone's been so kind."

"Only returning the favor. I don't think anyone on this ship has been spared your kindness."

"Jean-Luc, you exaggerate."

Wesley felt a bit embarrassed to be overhearing their conversation. Despite their words being completely harmless, there was this softness in their voices that felt private. He was reminded distantly of his first flirtations with girls in adolescence, the way they fumbled through pleasantries, unknowingly changed the timbre of their voices to carry an almost secretive edge before they became confident in the presence of the opposite sex. He began setting dishes on the table a little more loudly.

Captain Picard made it a habit to check on his mother at some point every day. Each time, if Wesley was present, the exchange made him feel unbearably uncomfortable. They acted unlike themselves; Wesley had never seen them like this. He wanted to leave them alone, because watching his Captain and mother acting like blushing school children was mortifying. But every time he tried to make his escape they stopped him. He began to realize that they were afraid to be alone, and he and anyone else who had the misfortune of being in their presence acted as a shield between their feelings-a reason not to talk about the important things. This was not a role Wesley was accustomed to playing, nor one he very much liked.

Wesley and his mother were open about almost everything. They had always been very comfortable discussing their romantic pursuits with each other, but this particular person was on forbidden ground. They both knew he had read many personal entries in her journal but they were both operating under an unspoken agreement not to mention its contents. Every time Wesley came close to saying something, he looked into her eyes and felt himself hit a force field that sent him flying backwards. Yet here he was again. He sighed and paused a moment before returning to the bedroom.

His mother was sitting in the same position, back upright in her dancer's posture, fingers fidgeting with the sheets between her ankles. The Captain was sitting on the edge of the other end of the bed, leaning towards her. She resembled a scared stray kitten, afraid to approach the bowl of warm milk placed before her.

Wesley cleared his throat and they turned their attention to him suddenly. Wesley felt like a parent walking in on his teenage daughter with her first boyfriend-awkward and protective. "Dinner's ready."

"Of course. Thank you, Wesley." The Captain was the first to get up.

His mother slowly unfolded her limbs and got out of bed, stretching. "What cuisine are we eating?"

"Earth, twentieth century, Italian peninsula." Wesley said proudly. He had been spending a decent amount of time coming up with tasty meals for his mother as some form of thanks.

Beverly smiled. "Of course. I'm excited!"

The beginning of the meal was excruciating. Every time their fingers touched, Wesley was afraid either the Captain or his mother would drop whatever it was they were holding, they twitched or trembled so suddenly. Then there was a profuse apology and a long silence, which Wesley then had to break with some desperate small talk. But, after some time passed, they reacquainted themselves with each other. This was the longest time the two had spent together since she had woken up. The display of affection and emotion at that moment was sudden but not surprising to anyone who witnessed it. He heard Commander Riker, Counselor Troi, and Geordi laughing about it later-they were apparently anticipating something a bit more passionate and were somewhat disappointed. After that, though, the two had barely gotten any time together, and their brief interactions had devolved into this awkward disaster as they both fumbled with their words.

By the time Wesley brought out dessert, the two were back to their old banter, arguing about this and that, teasing each other mercilessly. Wesley thought that the wine he had brought to share over dinner might have helped ease the tension a little. The synthohol couldn't get them drunk, but it could certainly make them relax.

"Wesley, you should have seen the look on this poor ensign's face—" They were laughing about some occasion when a fresh ensign had spilled a container of alien waste on the Captain's shoes. "Honestly, Jean-Luc you were giving her such a look too—"

"That's because I couldn't for the life of me remember her name!"

"Alyssa and I were trying so hard not to laugh—"

"—You weren't doing a very good job!"

Wesley settled comfortably next to his mother, content to just listen. Things finally felt natural again. Captain Picard was leaning forward, his eyes laughing and gentle-very unlike the Captain Picard Wesley knew on the bridge. Right now, he was just Jean-Luc. His eyes lit up every time his name passed across Beverly's lips. She was in a fit of giggles, her face half hidden behind her hands. Flushed cheeks and a crinkled nose peeked out from her fingertips. Wesley couldn't help but smile. This was his favorite side of his mother.

As they wrapped up dinner, Wesley insisted on cleaning up. He watched the two of them drift slowly towards opposite doorways, and sensed their reluctance to part. Just as he was coming up with a good reason to run off, Captain Picard made a resolute move towards the door.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Wesley." There was something deliberate about the way he addressed Wesley.

Wesley nodded in return, flashed a quick smile. "No problem, Captain. It was fun."

"Will you..." Both of them turned to his mother, who was leaning against the bedroom doorframe. She paused, looking embarrassed with both of them looking directly at her. Her voice was a bit quieter as she continued. "Will you join us tomorrow?"

He nodded. "I would like nothing more. Goodnight, Beverly."

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before he finally left. Wesley let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. That parental feeling was returning.

He set down the plate he was holding with a sigh. "Mom."

"Wes, don't even."

"I know, I know. I'm not supposed to say it. But, come on."

His mother retreated into the bedroom. Wesley abandoned the dishes momentarily and followed her in, leaning against the doorway and watching her pull out her hair and begin brushing it.

"Why are you two always like this? What's the issue? Is it Dad?" Wesley was going for it. He had stepped onto forbidden turf and he would have to make a mad dash if he was going to make it across.

"Wes, no, that's not it. I really don't want to talk about it."

"What are you afraid of?"

"There... there are more important things than having a romantic relationship. There's a lot to lose." She sighed and rested her hairbrush on her lap, staring into the bristles as though they had answers to all her questions.

He sat next to her on the bed, took one of her hands. "Mom, when I left the Academy, it was one of the riskiest decisions I had made. But you encouraged me, and I made up my mind and took that risk. I didn't even understand the scope of what I had to gain before I took that step."

"Oh Wes, stop being so mature."

"I just want you to be happy."

"You grew up too fast."

"I know."

* * *

"I fold."

"Worf, come on. Are you afraid of a little risky business?"

The Klingon growled a little.

Riker laughed and apologized. "Come on, you know I'm kidding."

The old crew was back at the poker table, two nights before they had to return to duty. Captain Picard had opted to stay in his quarters to finish a book he was almost to the end of and Wesley was sitting in his seat. They had come to the usual crossroads; Beverly and Will were the last ones standing and everyone was eagerly waiting for the outcome.

At that point, Wesley leaned over and whispered something into Riker's ear and his face instantly split into his signature impish grin. "Bev, let's raise the stakes."

Beverly cocked an eyebrow. "What do you propose?"

"If I win, Wesley joins me, Geordi, Worf, and Data for boys' night on the holodeck rather than third wheeling your dinner with Captain Picard tonight."

Geordi chimed in with approval and Deanna pursed her lips to suppress a laugh at Beverly's face.

Beverly flushed and then pressed her lips into a tight line. "And if I win?"

"We'll all dine with you and the Captain tonight."

She narrowed her eyes. Everyone in the room seemed to be conspiring against her. Even Worf looked a bit amused by the situation, a small smirk invading his serious demeanor.

"Fine."

The game ended with Wesley and Will high fiving, and Beverly staring at her cards looking absolutely mortified.

"I think you're going to like the program we've got lined up for tonight, Wes."

"Looking forward to it, Commander."

"Shall we make our way to Ten Forward, then?" Geordi stood up. "Have some dinner and get ourselves geared up?"

There were murmurs of agreement and everyone began getting up as Data expertly cleared the table.

Beverly directed one last pleading glance at Deanna, but she just shrugged. "I think I'm going to have dinner with the boys and turn in early. I barely got any sleep last night."

Beverly returned to her quarters feeling betrayed. She was counting on having Wesley with them at dinner again. The shame she felt in hiding behind her son was outweighed by her fear of being exposed.

She returned to her quarters and suddenly felt thirty years younger, the way her heart and stomach wrestled with each other inside her chest. She couldn't even begin to think of what to wear. She had already pulled out and tossed aside several options.

She heard the door open and was hoping it was Deanna (who else would enter without ringing?) coming to her rescue.

Instead Wesley poked his head in.

"Did you change your mind?" She asked hopefully.

"Just forgot my jacket." He looked around the bedroom and a flicker of amusement crossed his face.

"Don't even say a word." Beverly shot him a warning look. "This is your fault."

He shrugged but couldn't suppress a Riker-ish grin. He leaned over and plucked a simple dark green dress off the floor. "Wear this one. Trust me."

A recollection passed through Beverly's mind, but before she could form a response, Wesley had fled the room. She sighed, but put on the dress regardless.

All of the reckless parts of Beverly were threatening to gain dominance. She was actually beginning to look forward to their time alone, realizing how much she was anticipating it. She put away her clothes slowly; folding each one neatly calmed her. When she finished she found herself wishing her insides were as orderly as her bedroom.

The door chimed. She took a deep breath and went to answer it.

Jean-Luc was standing at the doorway holding a bottle of wine. "Good evening." The way his eyes passed quickly over her body before meeting her eyes sent a buzz from her chest to her fingertips. "You are looking better every time I see you. Wesley must be taking great care of you."

Beverly stepped aside to let him enter. "He is."

"Where is Wesley? I brought the wine I was telling him about."

Beverly bit her lip. "He… isn't coming."

It was difficult to gauge Jean-Luc's reaction, but he did suddenly appear less at ease. "Oh?"

"Will and the boys kidnapped him for a night out on the holodeck."

"Ah, yes. I would be careful about that; they expressly told me that I was not being included because they intended to spend an evening that would be inappropriate to share with their captain."

Beverly's eyebrows flew up. "Well, I most certainly don't want to hear any more about it."

"Shall we?" Jean-Luc placed the bottle on the table and traced a finger over the corked top.

"Why not. Now I think Wesley saved a menu for us in here somewhere…"

The two busied themselves with separate things, but the awareness of each other's bodies thickened the air in the cabin.

It was comfortable, very much like the breakfasts they shared before Beverly's illness. They navigated the room as though they were choreographed, chatting and passing by each other as they set the table. Jean-Luc chose to place the settings at one corner of the table rather than on opposite ends. Beverly noted this but didn't say anything. Privately, at moments like this she had fleeting images of what life together would be like. Jean-Luc making breakfast in the morning, Beverly making tea in the evening. Dinner together, talking about their day. She was slowly awakening to how much she longed for it all this time, somewhere in a dark corner of her mind. Her time trapped in paralysis dusted off the remote nooks and crannies inside her. All the artifacts that had been hidden there for years sat neatly in a row, gleaming with new polish.

As the wine worked its way into their systems, they leaned closer, picked bits of dessert off each other's plates (Beverly liked the filling, while Jean-Luc preferred the crust). The soft music in the background began to lull them into a tipsy daydream.

They moved to the couch and resumed their usual positions: Jean-Luc sitting with his body turned towards her, one arm draped over the back, Beverly curled up in the corner resting her chin on her knees.

"Last time we were like this, I fell asleep on your couch." Beverly gave him a small embarrassed smile.

"Oh yes, I remember clearly. You were trying to pretend you were listening to me talk about some archaeological artifact up until the last moment. You were nodding and mumbling agreement when I noticed your head was completely dropped to one side."

She laughed softly, burying her head in her knees. "No wonder I fell asleep!"

"You're right, I might be the one at fault there."

Beverly peeked up from behind her knees and gave him a look that was much more intense than she intended.

At first he looked as though he was about to break eye contact, but then thought better of it, stopping short before turning away. Instead, he leaned a bit closer, brushed her bangs from her eyes in a gesture she had come to find familiar and comforting. She closed her eyes and leaned into it slightly.

"Penny?"

She opened her eyes. "What?"

"Penny for your thoughts?" He said softly, borrowing her phrase.

She bit her lip, unsure of where to even start. "Do you even have a penny?"

"That bottle of wine is worth more pennies than you have thoughts."

She laughed a bit. "That's true."

"I admit... I was very afraid. I didn't know how much I would regret losing you until it almost happened." He held the tips of her fingers gently in his. "I hope we can be honest with each other. I don't want to have so many regrets."

"You _were_ honest, Jean-Luc." She placed her other hand on his cheek. "You've always loved me enough, treated me with such care. You've always been such a wonderful friend. You shouldn't have any regrets."

Jean-Luc recoiled from her touch, releasing her fingers suddenly. "You heard?"

Beverly licked her lips and took a breath before nodding. "Every word." Her voice was barely above a whisper now. Jean-Luc sat back against the couch, took his wine from the table and took a long sip. He stared out at nothing.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant. "I tried… I tried to move on. Bury my feelings. They ate at me. Twenty-five years is a long time for something to fester within you. I could never truly be rid of it. And every time we're close to each other, it all comes back to the surface. I know we set our limits, and it's unfair to you, but…"

Beverly uncurled herself and leaned towards him, placing a hand on his knee. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything. I felt… invasive. But you're not the only one who's been unfair. I admit… I haven't been keeping my distance the way I promised I would. I'm always struggling to keep things in control, but then I indulge myself, spend too many hours in your quarters, I even wore this stupid dress..."

"You look beautiful in it."

"I knew you would think that."

"Beverly, what are we struggling for? To what end?" He looked at her now, very seriously, and placed his wine glass back on the table.

"For our friendship?" She offered meekly.

"We're not getting any younger. If we keep going like this, I am afraid the regrets will begin to outweigh all of the good feelings. The strength of our friendship will fall apart somewhere in the fight."

Beverly brought her knees back up against her chest in response. She reached for her wine and downed her glass to avoid giving a reply. The world was soft beneath its blanket. Despite the seriousness of their conversation, her need to defend herself, she kept getting distracted by the color of his eyes, the proximity of his shoulders, the bold lines that shaped his mouth.

"What are you thinking about right now, Beverly?" He leaned forward and tilted his head to catch her wandering gaze.

"Kissing you." The words came out without a second thought and they stared at each other, both equally shocked by the statement. Neither knew how or when their faces had moved so close.

Jean-Luc closed the gap finally, kissing her gently. She found herself leaning in, encouraging the advance. He pressed forward, moving his fingers into her hair and his thumb onto her cheek. Her empty wine glass slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the carpet.

He stopped, his eyes finding hers. They were fearful and hopeful all at once. "Perhaps…" He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep a steady voice. "Perhaps we should stop thinking for a moment."

Beverly liked that idea. She liked it very much, and showed her agreement by unfolding her legs and leaning forward to resume their kiss. She placed her hands on his chest, slid them around his neck, ran her fingertips along the back of his head. He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulled her hips closer, pressed his palms between her shoulder blades and down her spine. Every touch sharpened their senses, the haze of the wine giving way to the clarity of adrenaline.

Beverly's fingers made quick work before she could second guess herself. She slipped her hands into the opening of his shirt, pulling the robe-like garment out of his belt and over his shoulders. As he pulled the sleeves off and let it fall away, Beverly felt a rush of excitement wash over her at the sight. Jean-Luc felt his heart beat a bit faster at the way her eyes lit up as they wandered over his body. He grabbed her immediately and continued kissing her, not just her lips but her cheek, her ears, and along her neck. He wanted to kiss all the parts of her he had been longing to touch for so long. At first she laughed a bit, then she sighed, then she pulled him closer, squeezing his neck tightly between her arms and chest. She was barely aware of his fingers finding their way up to the nape of her neck, where they deftly undid the zipper of her dress. He trailed his lips along her neck, following the straps of her dress as he pulled them off, kissing her shoulder before pulling the whole dress down. He broke off, pulling back to look at her, running his hands along the shape of her waist. She was thinner than before—it was now more apparent than ever—but no less appealing.

She couldn't help herself from laughing now. "You look so amazed. How long has it been since you've undressed a woman, Jean-Luc?"

He was embarrassed suddenly, color rising into his cheeks. "It's not that… It's just… admittedly this sight has crossed my mind a time or two in the past quarter of a century, and it doesn't quite seem real."

She smiled, leaned forward, and pressed her body against his, kissing his neck. His eyes closed and he fell back onto the couch, Beverly climbing on top of him. Her hair left feathery touches on his face and neck. He pulled the dress over her hips. She climbed out of it one leg at a time, and dropped it to join his shirt on the floor.

"What are we doing, Jean-Luc?" She whispered between kisses.

"Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

"Of course I have." She slid her hands down his stomach, slipping her fingers into the hem of his pants. She felt his body tense as he inhaled sharply at her touch.

Neither of them could be sure they weren't caught up in one of their own fantasies. Countless scenes like this one had strayed into their minds over the years, but they never thought it would come anywhere near reality. They pulled the rest of their clothes off and reveled in the sensations of bare skin on skin contact. They explored every inch of each other with their hands and mouths, trying to imprint the shapes and textures in their minds. It was a clumsy pursuit, both out of practice and unfamiliar with each other's bodies, but even the missteps brought them closer, their gasps permeated by laughter and teasing quips.

Beverly's first climax sent her floating out of her body, even as her fingers grasped at edge of the couch and traced the shape of Jean-Luc's head between her thighs. She found herself back in the void of her mind, only this time consumed by the flame she had so carefully avoided, every part of her from her skin to the marrow in her bones catching, burning up, until the ashes settled back into her body.

Her second one severed the two of them from the rest of the ship and the starbase as she stared wide eyed into colors of the painting behind the couch. All matter dissipated and they were enveloped by the nothingness of space, Beverly holding onto his neck to keep herself from drifting into another galaxy as they rocked against each other.

The third time, they were on the floor and Jean-Luc went with her, his neck arching as he tried and failed to keep his eyes on her, his body trembling underneath her. They dematerialized together, their molecules ripping into atoms and then into subatomic particles that formed new compounds with each other before once again returning to their original forms in a shower of sparks. The words that they had been struggling to say out loud never needed to be spoken in the first place; the phrase simply passed through the stellar material that had been travelling space and time for billions of years to connect them in this moment.

Beverly rolled over and they lay on the carpet side-by-side. Her fingers found Jean-Luc's hand and she hooked her pinky in his. "What now?"

Jean-Luc turned his head to face her profile. "Well we certainly can't go back to the way things were."

"But after all this time, words like 'boyfriend' and 'husband' have lost all meaning."

They both knew this was true. Definitions seemed irrelevant in the wake of everything that had transpired between them. It was as though they had lived multiple lifetimes in the span of their time together, been several completely different versions of themselves.

"Well then what are we? Where do we go from here?"

Beverly turned her head and their eyes met. "Onward."

They crawled into bed together as the ship's morning crept closer. Things wouldn't be different right away. More years would pass, taking them on more ups and downs, ins and outs. At times they would be apart, and here and there they would play with the idea of being with other people. But in that moment as they drifted off into dreams, they both knew that they would always find their way back to each other, and their story would end like this: Beverly's head cradled in the crook of Jean-Luc's neck, their bodies suspended in the stars.


End file.
